The Rise of the Nazbukhrin
by JonsonofFundin
Summary: Forty years after several great Corsair fleets were decimated at the hands of the Gondorians, Umbar is beset with waves of refugees fleeing the Southern lands of Harad. Now with the rise of Sauron starting up again, the Lai n'Abar, a group of dwarven resistance fighters, have to struggle against the imperialism from the West and the darkness seeping into their homeland.
1. Chapter One: Mardruak Fallen

_Dusk, Umbar City_

The lone dwarf weaved her way through the tented stalls and noise, the crush of bodies against the dusty walls of Umbar, and down to the city gate that led to the docks. Despite Umbar being the sea haven of the Corsairs, the main harbour was situated on a steep slope away from the city gates, and the wide, winding road that led down past the outskirts of the walls was now slick with mud from the summer storm that had whipped across the bay only an hour ago.

The scent of the rain on the dry earth almost drowned the aroma rising from the food _zek_, now crammed with people clamouring for the last of the vendors' produce for the evening – meats, sauces, rices and baskets of seafood carted up fresh from the shore – but already there were stall holders packing up shop to dismayed shouts.

Lumkha's lips tightened as she fought her way against the legs of the crowd. With her tersely muttered apologies giving way to shoving and elbowing upwards, she let out a sigh of relief as she burst free from the main gate like a cork out of a bottle, casting a glance over her shoulder in amazement.

Despite the night settling in slowly, with purple and orange deepening to an indigo on the horizon, more and more caravans were arriving from the Coast Path. They were laden with goods, people, whole houses and families and clans backed up as far as she should see. Several city guards ran past her, their sweat drenched faces visible by the glare of torch brackets high on the outer towers and the glittering lamps that lit up windows piled up to the palace far above her.

A scuffle had broken out between two wagons, and the Ironfist had half a mind to go and sort it out herself; her blood was up and she thought quietly that laying a blow to the thick skull of a Man would make her night immeasurably better. She gingerly felt where she'd been pushed aside by some faceless person in her escape from the crush at the gate, and groaned as she traced a gaping tear in the fabric hanging from her shoulder.

"Perfect," Lumkha hissed, glaring at the offending patch of bare skin as she rooted in her leather pack for some pins. Almost as soon as she'd had that idea, she threw her bag over her shoulder again and twisted on her heel, willing herself not to fall onto the matted grass as the made her way down to the harbour.

Passing the queue into the gates, her eyes couldn't help registering the places the caravans were from: the nightly lines of people vying to enter the gates had been her source of news without directly asking anyone, though on the coast of Umbar she got information quickly enough from the Corsairs that she considered her allies.

It seemed Gondor was picking up the pace in their southern raids.

Lumkha remembered the first of it, the slow beginning when news was just seeping north – it had only been Felaya then, and she had desperately hoped it was a one-off attack of hatred or retaliation. She remembered holding her friend in the middle of a hot afternoon one month ago, an Umbari dye seller with a father from the Felayan province, as she had broken down in tears: Gondorian naval ships had come without warning, looting the land and sacking homes and businesses alike.

In disbelief, the dwarf had listened that night in her local haunt on the dock as the Corsair captains spoke of the destruction caused, with others stocking up through the night as they turned their pirate ships for home in panic. That was when the first refugees started to make their way to Umbar. It hadn't stopped.

Though Lumkha hailed from the Orocarni herself – her hometown in _Guthelabad_ seemed both too far and uncomfortably present with the upsurge in dwarven mariners in Umbar these days – a rage even fiercer than the throb of venom she usually bore for Gondorian men rose in her as she saw the lines of people waiting, possessions clutched tight in their hands. In Urfanmi's tears, she heard the ghost of the destruction the Numenoreans had brought on Umbar ages past, still remembered now amongst its citizens who had lived through the newest burning of Umbari ships forty years previous. But she forgot how fast the years hastened by for her, and how slowly it passed for Men. Despite that, the past month had been the slowest she had ever encountered, as she both searched near obsessively for news of more raids and at the same time willed that there was nothing to tell but the comings and goings of pirates and traders and Corsairs, the hub of Umbar rebuilding itself again.

More and more families, more and more of the Men she knew sitting in stunned silence with her, their faces vacant as they made space in their cramped rooms for extended families and friends fleeing northwards. Children and mothers without fathers or husbands wandering on the streets and sitting under the covers of canopies hastily erected outside the city walls.

_Who was it now?_

The dwarf ran a hand through her beard and tugged it absent-mindedly; she had been scolded by Varhi the other day for nearly ripping out a chunk of it. Her stomach flipped as she realised some of the people were from Mardruak, a short journey down the coast from Umbar itself. _Less than a few hours away_.

Pirates were always useful sources of information; if you were in deep enough, you were guaranteed reliable news often as you liked it, but she hadn't even bothered to ask the intricacies of what was going on. She overheard enough talk, anyway. When she could bear it no longer, Lumkha turned away from the caravan train, taking the larger path where it split from the road that linked all coastal states in Harad together to the main wagon-way to Umbar. The cold wind made her light hood useless, and she grabbed her cloak to her face, walking faster and eyeing the building she was making for: a thoroughly disgusting hole on the Umbar's harbourside behind the storehouses and shops, hidden between the tight walls of an alleyway. Abandoned some time ago by the previous owners and carefully avoided by the City guards (who took a blind eye to most things the Corsairs and their allies did) The Red Cap was almost entirely run and staffed by seafarers from Harad to Khand, and even those traders from the Sea of Rhun. The rum was black market, and the food was plentiful and cheap if you didn't come too late in the evening.

She nodded to some of those she recognised as she strode across the docks, passing from sparse countryside to paved stone and crumbling monuments far out in the water. Every so often, she heard a friendly word called by a captain or crew-member from this ship or that, and the people that had thinned out on the path now swelled again as ships jostled for space and traders unloaded for the evening. The tight knot of panic that had bubbled in her chest inside Umbar's city walls now began to subside as she walked in familiar territory; she'd never been a fan of the City itself, but being close to the sea was where she truly felt comfortable. As a young girl, Lumkha had grown up in the area of trade in the Orocarni, with the Eastern Sea flowing underground into a port twice the size of this one; much like Port Nazbukhrin, Umbar came with its familiar sights and smells, which had drawn her close all those years ago.

Over the past month, there had been more boats drifting into Umbar. Not traders or Haradi greatships, but small, battered fishing boats, guided to settle uneasily in the bay by wizened captains who Lumkha thought looked more at home in the field than the open sea.

Slipping in through the door of the Red Cap, the dwarf breathed in as she smelled something cooking – something meaty and much needed, along with the headiness of good, strong ale.

"Lums! Here!"

She peered over a few heads and shoulders to a corner of the bar, and made out the wild, curled mane that she knew could only belong to one person. She grinned, barely hearing him at first over the chatter.

_Getting a drink!_ She mouthed back at the dwarf, who sat with his large forearms propped up on the table, a collection of mugs surrounding him_. _Optimism blossomed inside her at a sudden thought, and then, with a quick look to the bar to make sure she had been seen, she mouthed again – _The Nazbukhrin_?

The Blacklock dwarf shook his head, flicking it backwards and indicating that his own ship was back somewhere else; Lumkha suspected the Sea of Rhun or the city of Dale. Her eyes fell a little and she heaved herself up at the bar to order her drink and a side of stew. It would have been good to have a catch up with the captain about the recent events. While Lumkha was often left frustrated and unfulfilled with the politics of the world of Men, Captain Hafar Jazrul dealt with anything as he always did – with an envied patience, far surpassing the tolerance that Lumkha often fronted. His first mate, on the other hand, had seated himself far out of the way of anybody, at a deserted table half in shadow.

With a glass nestled precariously in the crook of her arm and a steaming bowl cradled in both her hands, she dodged the sailors streaming in, the crush in the bar mirroring the city above it as the harbour neared peak time. Varhi budged up on the bench, pulling the glasses to one side and sinking back with his pipe gripped between his teeth. The other dwarf tutted as she caught a whiff of the smoke around him; it was the strange Rhuni fare that Varhi always stocked up on when he was in Oszrahank – she was sure Hafar had gotten him hooked on it.

"How's things?" he drawled, his breath speaking of an ale too many. Lumkha spooned a healthy amount of broth into her mouth, breathing out deeply as she felt her muscles relax finally. Walking through the city for the best part of the last four hours had her back knotted, and she stretched backwards, leaning partially on her friend.

"Mardruak-"

"I know."

Lumkha stared into her bowl, tumbling the meat and vegetables slowly with her spoon, at a loss of what to say. She turned to Varhi sadly, but he was relighting his pipe with a frown of concentration.

"The raids aren't going to stop. They're getting closer," she said.

They all knew it. Every single person inside of the bar knew it, and she didn't want to open her ears to the conversations buzzing around their heads.

Varhi grunted, taking a deep drag and offering it to Lumkha out of habit.

"The Zindurlai crew turned back South today," he mentioned. "You just missed them."

A muscle tightened in Lumkha's jaw, but she took a swig of her ale and said nothing. _The Zindurlai_, while not affiliated with Umbar as a Corsair party, was the ship that had first taken her on, a scared young dwarrowdam pirate looking to make a name for herself when she had met them in her home at Port Nazbukhrin. She steadied her breathing for a moment, relishing the bitterness of the strange beer she only drank when it was shipped in from outside.

"What?" she snapped, as she saw Varhi eyeing her mug with an insufferable drunk smirk.

"With a slice of orange? Really?" the dwarf said, grinning at her and picking up what seemed to be his fifth or sixth glass. Lumkha rolled her eyes, twisting a wayward strand of coarse black hair from her face behind her ear, and noticed that she'd lost her hair clasp somewhere.

"It tastes better with the orange. Plus," she added, giving it a little squeeze and throwing it precisely into the larger dwarf's mug with a foamy splash, "you need some fruit once in a while!"

The sight of Varhi wiping froth from his thick beard was worth the punch in the arm she got, and a smile broke out on her face for the first time that day.

"How was the city?" Varhi asked seriously, absent-mindedly taking one of Lumkha's braids into his fingers and frowning at the untidiness of it. She batted his hand away and threw her hood up once more.

"From the state of you..." he continued, taking in the ruffled clothes and missing hairpieces, "quite a crowd?"

Draining the other quart of her beer, Lumkha nodded. She didn't need to tell Varhi that there was hardly any breathing room in the food market, that there were women and children on the streets, that there were unmarked gangs standing inside darkened and unguarded alleyways looking for easy prey.

"All of Umbar is fucked," the Blacklock spat, before fishing the orange slice from his drink with a finger and pushing it into his mouth. Lumkha smiled, leaning back against Varhi's leg which he'd propped up in front of him, and he laid a strong arm over her shoulder. She linked their fingers, tracing the cut of the new rings Varhi had bought for himself with hers, deep brown on gold, whilst she admired the jade and turquoise against the tan of his skin. It reminded her of the markets back at home, where the women had huge pale blue ear plugs carved with faces, animals, and the angular inlay of jewelled shapes.

"Oh-" Varhi began, halting for a moment to puff out a plume of acrid smoke into the air. Lumkha shot the dwarf an upwards glare, but only really caught sight of his nostrils and the thick ring pierced through the middle.

"Captain Ulbar sends his regards to you," he said, his eyes studying the ebb and flow of people outside the wide window on the other side of the room. "He wanted to see you before the ship left, but I think he got too angry with all the new boats in the harbour today – you know how he likes his peace and quiet."

Despite kicking herself for not getting out of the city quicker, Lumkha snorted at the half-jest. Ulbar was easy to anger, often liking more a deserted stretch of water than the bustle of a pub – but he was never adverse to kicking up a ruckus in a small crowd. Many of the Corsairs who called Umbar their home were frustrated at the new ships taking up space as more and more towns were evacuated, but there was nothing to be done, and there was nearly a tussle every day. Harbour space was a precious commodity; the guards of the haven had taken to anchoring boats at the front of the bay, sending all refugee ships to nearby town ports.

"May Mahal keep them safe," Lumkha said, raising a glass to The Zindurlai and closing her eyes briefly. She felt Varhi reach for his own drink – but the stiffening of his back made her crack an eye open.

The dwarf's gaze had flickered down at her from where he'd been staring out of the window, and she felt a soft hand on her shoulder. Lumkha followed his eyeline, but couldn't see anything without her eyeglasses (conveniently back at her ship) – she could sense something though, in the way Varhi moved, in the way he seemed to be hesitant about telling her...

"As I came into port this morning... I noticed there were others amongst the crowd of... survivors."

Lumkha stilled, swirling the last dregs of beer anxiously.

"There are Men from the Outer States here on the docks, some of them threatening the Corsairs."

At that moment, Lumkha wished she had the nerve to stop Varhi, to close her ears and block out what was inevitably going to come now. He took a deep breath, and the Ironfist pirate came up to meet him, offering her ear.

"They're growing in number – we all knew it was only a matter of time, but Ulbar... he was approached yesterday. I think that's why he wanted to get away – to Mardruak and then onto Nilul. They wanted the ship; they asked about prices and if he was in league with _Him_ already..."

"I thought the Zigûr's base in Rhun had been destroyed long ago," Lumkha breathed, lowering her voice and looking back over her shoulder and the tables. Amongst the assorted dress and mannerisms of the Men around her, there were old faces she knew, but increasingly more and more were unfamiliar – the servants of the Deceiver could be anybody.

"The States along the Canal are already sending riders to Umbar – and I have already seen more than one ship with the Eye drawn onto its hull somewhere, or hanging from a mast," Varhi said quickly. His voice had dropped to a whisper, but Lumkha winced: the Eye hadn't been seen for an Age – it was an old symbol of Morgoth's overwhelming power, and to have it drawn onto a ship was troubling. She went to take another mouthful of stew which had lain neglected, swallowing the cold, spicy broth that burned at the back of her throat.

"They're going to take advantage of the City," she said, after allowing her mouth to cool for a few seconds.

"There is still time," Varhi replied in earnest. With every passing second, the dwarves' voices hushed lower, until they were almost bent double at their corner with the overhead torch casting their forms into shadow.

"Time enough for Umbar to put their trust in a stronger power, and time enough for Gondor to strike out in retaliation against anything these new _zigûrens_ can whip up through the ranks of the Corsairs!"

The words tumbled from Lumkha's lips, all of the fears she had bottle up inside of her now being released like poison. For a moment, Varhi was silent beside her, and his only movement was to take another drink as the door of The Red Cap banged open and closed.

"I'm going to get a rum," he said darkly. Without a word, he stood, stretched, and Lumkha folded herself into the warm space he'd left, with enough of a mind to catch his arm and request one for herself.

It was going to be a night of thinking.

Outside The Red Cap, dusk had passed into night, and the torches and lamps were now lit in full, illuminating up the pathway. The sails of many ships, Khandisgi, dwarven, and Haradi, fluttered in the wind. Another storm was on the way, far out to sea.

_Glossary:_

_Guthelabad - Kh. _the Orocarni

_Zigûr_ – _Ad._ Sauron

_zigûrens - Ad. _the worshipers of Sauron

_zek - Ad. _Market


	2. Chapter Two: A New Shadow

Forty years ago, the largest host of Corsair ships sailed out of Umbar in more than a thousand years, bound for Gondor. They never returned.

Life inside the bright city walls halted once more. A few of the battered ships limped back to the haven, but in the years that followed the harbour lacked the proud standards of the Corsairs and the security that the free-roaming crews provided to trader vessels; fishing boats started to moor in the spaces once reserved for great captains, who now slept under a strange shore.

Rebuilding was slow, but constant; a slow drag upwards. Umbar was not a target for Gondor's eyes, who turned every so often to their old seat of power, but a port of trade and commerce for Khand and Northern Harad. The cities nearby sprawled into the desert and lined the great man-made Azuladun Canal; beyond the mountains to the north that stretched up to Hildorien lay the forgotten pastures of ancient peoples, and then northwards still was the great wonder of the East, the red mountain range of Guthelabad and the home to the greatest of the dwarves in Haradi legend. Like veins in the beating heart of Middle-Earth, all of these kingdoms connected by water and camel, by boat, foot and wagon. And so had they done for centuries.

Gondor settled back to survey the damage as Wainriders' drowned bodies flushed into the sea or sunk to the bottom of the lakes. To the East, once again the plains Clans clashed and merged to absorb the damage of so many brothers and sisters' deaths, and powers rose and fell unbeknownst to their enemies in Rohan. On the borders of the Orocarni in the vast riverside cities, the Eastern captains met to divide land once again, paying weregild to their lost soldiers and wagon-riders where it was due, and life continued for the Easterlings – those that camped and hunted in the cold wastes north of the Range still migrated down into the middle of the pastures as the cold thawed, and thousands of crow-miles away on the shores of the mighty Sea of Rhun, the Banyuk Clain held their seat of governance over the capital of Dorwinion.

The last of the seats of Black Numenorean rule, Bellakar's capital city of Nilul, still held power in the South of the land, inland where the rivers turned the desert green. Boats laden with wood were sent to rebuild the Corsair ships, along with hundreds of wagonfuls of rice up the Coast Path. With a citadel twice as high as Umbar City itself, the gleaming sandstone of Nilul's walls held temples and seats of learning, wide halls where the scholars of the land drew up the laws of the nearby kingdoms according to old tradition, changed little since the last of the Numenorean bloodline had faded. In those times, the rum trade from nearby Tarkesh blossomed, the Umbar mariners' gold going to soften the blow of dead fellows; in Bozisha, the port town of the southern coast, the fruit harvests of mangoes and dates came and went as they always had done, and the surrounding grasslands continued to nourish the roving cattle: cows, horses, and some wilder kine unseen in other parts of the South. From the vast tent encampment nestled in the valley of Zimrenzil, to the gem-mines of the Haskani tribe in the Mardruak mountains, the inner workings of Harad continued, and Umbar staggered upwards, pulled together by the grief and pride of its citizens.

__Midday, Umbar City__

Some said Minas Tirith was based on Umbar City. Its curves rising up in a fortress of silver-grey stone, its network of streets arched and dark, and the huge courtyards of fountains bordered with shops built upon one another. The rounded and intricate Numenorean design in the oldest parts below on the shoreline mixed gradually with a fresher, angular Haradi style above; both designs complemented and mocked each other, remnants of the past and the struggling present, often covered by bright drying fabrics, stocked silverware outside smithies and the throng of people passing through each of the City's numerous __zeken__. These markets spilled out, merging sometimes at all levels down to the sea, and the great labyrinths of commotion, colours and smells mingled into one hypnotic and overpowering haze, especially in the dusk and late afternoon where the sun was at her most tolerable and the streets had been newly swept, stalls laid afresh.

But at noon in the summer, with the heat warping the distant dark smudge of An Karagmir on the eastern horizon, it was quiet; men sat in the shade underneath low canopies, raising glasses of cold mint tea to sweating faces in an effort to cool off, some playing dice games, some making conversation with the trickle of shoppers ambling by.

If you walked for an hour up to the high levels (close to the wall; the wagon drivers were notorious), the street became one road as it lead up the centre of the Old City, ascending to the bulbous domed tower of the Ivory Hall that glistened brass and gold in the high sun. __'The High Buildings'__they were called by the locals, for in this district they rose in great formations one behind the other, and all in a complex series of narrow alleyways and walkways in the shape of the crescent moon: the Hall and seat of the Queen's power, the Temple (that burned now monthly instead of thrice daily), and the Library.

The Library was one of Umbar's prides, saved from destruction multiple times throughout the Ages by the temple guard and a secretive stronghold that lay deep within the palace itself. If you got past the guards or earned the favour of one of the scholars, the great iron doors would give way to towering stone spirals of manuscripts from the Orocarni dwarves to Anballukhorian tablets, Agoni Clan maps charting the laws of the ancient land before Numenorean rule, Har Shulam tapestries hanging in shaded corners, and the quiet alcoves high in the roofs dedicated to transcribing and translation. Though Umbar had been burned and ransacked over the years, the Library was a haven of peace.

The midday bell rang for council throughout the Hall, and one by one, the councillors of Umbar made their way to their seats. Queen Althidi sat in an onyx chair; aside from the Library, the seat of Kings (or Queens) was a remnant from an earlier time, and had seen both politician, tribal lord and Corsair Admiral take to it to govern the City. An Admiral Captain of the Corsair still had not been appointed, the elder Corsair taken to the bottom of the northern waters with his greatship before the Queen's birth. Since then, the Corsairs had resumed a form of self-government, rising ships taking precedence in the waters, but somehow with very little dissent amongst the newer vessels. The space reserved for him at the grand council table, however, still remained vacant in a sign of proprietary.

Althidi waited for the bustle to subside, leaning back and watching the dust spin up in the small patch of light that fell across the documents in her lap. Far away from the streets below, she could almost pretend a national crisis wasn't happening. More than once this past month she'd had the urge to barricade herself inside the cool walls of the Ivory Hall, away from the tents in the streets and the endless lines of people – more came every day. Now, after the fall last night of Mardruak to Gondorian ships, it was impossible to push out of mind for much longer.

An uncomfortable silence fell in the council chamber, and every expectant face turned towards her. With one glance at Chancellor Haidi to her left, Althidi rose, taking in a deep breath of crisp air and the official's strong perfume oil.

"Welcome, Council, and well met," she began, a twisted metal glass flute in between her fingers. The others followed suit, a few of the elders standing out of old habit.

"May the rule of Umbar be strong."

Althidi tipped the stringent liquid down her throat, the fire coursing into her stomach and making her eyes water. She set the glass down quickly; many others had only taken a sip of the customary drink after muttering the reply, but some, like her, had needed the kick.

Lowering herself down again, the Queen spread the papers in front of her. Maps, reports, city numbers that had been collected and grown, reports from the food traders. __Where to begin? __She thought dismally, her eyes tracing over pleas and the increasingly frantic tones of the head of the City's watch.

"More come every day, my Lady Althidi."

The Queen's eyes raised to the Captain of the Watch, who now pushed another paper towards her across the table. He was tired, as were they all, but him moreso. His tightly curled hair had more grey in it since they last met, and his face was sagging and creased, his dark eyes speaking of not enough sleep and far too much stress.

"Last night there were people coming in until day broke. Gondorian ships left the coastline around the same time, and we have heard about no sightings since," he finished, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. He looked to his right at the Coastal Captain, whose head jerked in a nod.

"Bozisha are still sending supplies for repairs northwards, but..." The captain trailed off, staring at the map that was spread wide on the table. Althidi leaned forwards, glancing at the red wax marking the points that had been hit. One main province was left clear, but circled in a wide, black line.

"You think Bozisha will be next?" she asked, drawing her hand up to her hair and threading her fingers in the mussed braids. There was no shock to her captain's statement; moreover, it was a miracle that the rich province, which had one of the best coastline defences, had not been the first to go.

"We can't pretend it won't happen," the captain offered. Around the table, there was a noise of accord – more like a collective groan. The Moksahb slumped his head in his hands to her right, his moan stifled by his palms.

"We can't keep feeding half of Harad," he said, eyes closed tightly. His domain was the markets of Umbar, which now, he had reported for the past few weeks, were at a state of emergency.

"The fishermen are too scared to venture out into open water, and the Corsairs are returning South, or not at all. No word has come out of Felaya since it fell four weeks ago, and if Bozisha goes-"

"Husband-" Chancellor Haidi hissed to the Queen's left, reaching behind her to place a stilling had on his arm. The man quietened, but his imploring look to Althidi was unmissable as he distractedly took a sip of his drink. Several around the table shifted in their seats, raising their eyes to the painted ceiling or around at the carven statues, each one depicting a loremaster or ruler of Umbar since the Second Age – the eldest, a faded carving of pioneering scholar Mizokh, who founded the Library and the first scholar to collect historical manuscripts; the most recent of Nazmir, the late Corsair captain and Admiral of Umbar.

"Haidi, you said you have news from the Outer States?" The Queen asked, raising an eyebrow at her Chancellor, and for a moment leaving the news of the new Gondorian threat. The woman looked at her sadly, then to the Coastal Captain. Both seemed to struggle to get words out, and it was Haidi who spoke first, in a measured tone that bore the hallmarks of being pondered over far too much.

"I have been meeting with the captain frequently since the raids started," she began softly, avoiding the Queen's gaze somewhat and twisting the heavy black ring of office on her finger, "and it has come to light that there has been an increased disturbance in the cities along the Canal, most specifically Korondaj." Haidi looked up to the captain, who had sunk back in his chair.

"We have seen ships bearing the symbol of the Eye again in the harbours, making trouble with the Corsair captains, or at least trying to," he added with a dry laugh.

The Moksahb sat up straight again, his indigo cloth veil rippling as he settled himself forwards.

"And in the City as well," he added, pushing his headcoverings back a little to dab the sweat on his brow. "Our reports say that new groups of the Zigûr's followers are unifying themselves with some of the unmarked gangs we have been having trouble with. From what I've heard, they think the rule in Umbar is too soft for their liking, that the people want to strike out-"

"But since then, nothing has come from Korondaj. We've sent riders there and they have not returned," Haidi interjected. Her fists clenched hard on the table so tightly that her knuckles whitened, and her sharp eyes bored into the Queen's from beneath her own loose hood. "All the cities under the control of the Zigûr priesthood close down to us; we know this from the past that nobody goes in or out."

Another rumble of agreement swept the room; but this time there were more who stayed silent.

The Queen sighed, biting her lip. She knew well the power the Zigûr had when morale was weak and the people were frightened, when frustration at injustice was at the highest. She had come across the dune sea to An Karagmir in the back of a nomadic caravan, escaping an attack on her Clan in Khand many years ago. As a young woman under the care of her merchant family, Althidi had started priestesshood in the Temple there, one built even greater than the temple in Umbar, and she had found solace in a network more powerful than herself. Soon, though, the City gates closed, with the only movements in or out being the faceless zigûren riders, the only ones free to pass as they pleased. Over the thousands of years that had passed since the heavy hand of the Black Numenoreans, the Common Law of Umbar City, like the landscape of Harad and Khand, had changed; it been amended and looked over by scholar, Corsair, and King alike, and gradually the regime set down by the followers of the Zigûr had become indistinguishable from ethics and some of the more self-serving rules set down by Althidi's forebearers.

"If Korondaj becomes a breeding ground of those who follow the Zigûr, we must be wary," said a man who had not spoken – the old Lawmaster of Umbar. Also the chief scholar at the Library, he held Althidi's gaze with steady grey eyes, slapping a fly away from his beard idly. "We all know the need to do something about Gondor. How we do it is what everyone will fight over."

When the attacks had first begun, it was unclear what Gondor had wanted. It was raids, lightning fast and destroying earth, resources, and homes alike. The news Chancellor Haidi had brought from her network of ears had spoken of cargo carried off to the north, while other reports said that Arnadil, the new Admiral of Gondor, had begun to blackmail those in power as far as Nilul, encouraging them to turn rule over to Gondorian lords.

"__If__ Umbar is attacked," Haidi said, standing and refilling her water glass from the central jug, "then I can assume the groups in the City with the most power will retaliate in whatever way they want to; whether or not we can regulate it-" she inclined her head respectfully to the Coastal Captain, "is what troubles me."

"For us to strike against Arnadil and his forces ourselves, then," said the Captain of the Watch slowly, "is to stop the movement of any zigûren gangs in our city before they influence the Corsair ships out of our control."

__But what if zigûren are right?__

That was the unspoken thought around the table, which passed through the glances and silence. Even the captain looked uncertain, glancing up to his Queen and back to the chancellor to check if, really, he was speaking sense.

Althidi cleared her throat, looking to Chancellor Haidi, then at the Lawmaster. The documents each had brought meant little. In her mind, there was only one solution now, no matter how fraught the Coastal Captain looked at the mention of sending more ships out to confront Arnadil's forces.

"A state of emergency is therefore called upon Umbar," she said, her voice falling flat on her ears. "While we are not strong enough to risk open warfare now with Gondor burning the coastline, we must turn our attention to both the zigûren gangs and their influence outside of our power with the Corsair, not only the raids. Any force they might use behind our backs might prove fatal."

The light shifted, illuminating new faces, lined, scared, heavy. Somewhere below, another bell sounded, signalling the mid-afternoon meal was prepared. The bustle of the kitchens drifted up from the rooms below, the heady scent of slow cooked meat wafting in through the open arches in the walls. Althidi's nose twitched, and the Queen gathered her papers, making sure to catch Haidi's eye as a nod of her head indicated the meeting adjourned.

"I will call another council tomorrow to decide a course of action," she said over the clutter of people rising to their feet. She stood, too, gathering her dress around her against the chill breeze blustering through the room and slamming the blinds. The Moksahb had filled Althidi's cup with the toasting drink, and she stood back, raising it to eye-level.

"May Umbar endure until the ending of the World."

"So may it be."

"Althidi!"

The Queen turned to face Haidi, who was walking quickly towards her out of the Ivory Hall's throne room, clutching a meal of rice and pulled beef in sauce. Althidi's stomach complained at not having had the chance to eat yet, and she parted from the Lawmaster – who had insisted on talking to her after the meeting had finished – to face her Chancellor.

The woman smirked and pushed the bowl into Althidi's hands, walking with her back to the throne room and giving the Lawmaster a suspicious glance.

"What did that one want?" she whispered, linking her arm in the Queen's, who was balancing a roll of papers in one and the meal in the other.

"To talk to me more about the Zigûr," she said delicately, frowning at her Chancellor. "He says there could be a way of reconciling with them... I myself..."

Althidi paused to have a spoonful, before plunging it back in and hitching up her purple dress sleeves.

"I have some Khandisgi connections meeting with Arnadil right now, and I should receive his location by this eve," the Chancellor muttered, guiding Althidi to a stop beneath a hanging lamp outside the throne room. Servers and noblemen pushed by and the chatter of many voices in different tongues bubbled up from below. The Chancellor leant in further, casting her black hood over her thick, tightly braided hair.

"What are your orders?"

Night fell over Harad, and the moon rose, crescent like the complex of the High Buildings, peering over the tallest tower of the Library. Miles away from Umbar, Sango shivered, pulling his shawl closer about his skin: it was colder up here; the scent in the air was stranger than he imagined.

A week had passed since the raid on Bozisha-Dar, and he shifted uncomfortably as he felt the blood rushing back to his arse. He'd been sitting in this wagon for days, with books, gold, and gems laden about him and the others.

"__If this gets raided," he warned Jarmil, as he was unceremoniously pushed into the back of the overcrowded cart, "then I'm not going to be treated kindly. You know the zigûren have returned-"__

"I wonder if he's alright."

Sango turned to the woman who had spoken, a young girl of around seventeen, with her large eyes set deep in her face. Her skin glistened with the light of the towns they passed and the moon through the trees, which were becoming more sparse the more north they went. Her own shawl was pressed around her, threads of gold running through the plum-coloured fabric.

"He's Jarmil; he'll be fine," Sango replied defiantly, settling his head back and forcing sleep to come.

"My arse hurts."

Sango sighed, turning over to face the girl (he'd already forgotten her name again; he'd not eaten properly in days) and drew his long legs up to his chest.

"Everyone's arse hurts-"

"M'tiba," she said quietly.

"Everyone's arse hurts, M'tiba," Sango said, lurching forwards as the wagon gave a harsh jolt.

M'tiba fiddled with her silver bracelet, counting the charms on it once more and twisting it in her hands. Out of habit, Sango's fingers found his necklace, and the sigil of Olou slipped through his fingers.

"Should have worn Asa to drown those Gondor rats," he said harshly, throwing down the metal onto his chest.

Minutes passed, and the cart slowed down again, the horse picking its way through a rough patch of stone.

"I'm wearing Asa, but he doesn't do anything anymore," M'tiba said, leaning against Sango and shivering. The man creaked open an eye, reaching to cover his bald head from the cold.

"There are rumours on the shore that the Zigûr men are looking for a great sea captain to turn him into a Lord."

Sango slumped backwards, throwing the edge of his cloak tighter around him as he hunched over, his breath rising before him like one of those Orocarni ice-dragons he'd heard about in his childhood. For a moment he thought he'd remembered a story about how the Stiffbeard dwarves still had a few chained up. Or maybe it was the lack of sleep...

"There are no great captains anymore. At least not up in Umbar," he said, rifling through his pack to find some cured beef.

__There had been no warning, just the appearance of ships on the horizon, and the blast of the horn sounding from the shore. But they had all expected it: Bozisha would be the last place to fall.__

__Before he realised how he'd got to the shore side, Sango was laden like a mule, with books, papers, money, food – anything Captain Jarmil could get his hands on, Sango took and threw into the back of the wagon, which was already retreating up the path. People were pushing to get onto it, and several fell back into the mud when their feet lost grip, or as they were shoved away in desperate panic.__

"__LISTEN TO ME!" Jarmil shouted, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the torched houses. Sango was hanging out now, Jarmil running behind – he wasn't getting on the wagon, he could get on the wagon-__

"__Please, I don't want to leave you – my captain-" Sango said, pulling at the man's hand, but it was no use, the cart was pulling away, people still throwing their possessions into it and climbing on top of others – women, children – to get on... Sango hadn't thought it would be like this, he thought there would be more time-__

__A letter was thrust into his hand, and as he snatched it, Jarmil pulled away, standing in the track left behind. Sango could see him draw his scimitar out, glancing behind him as the first of the raider crafts landed.__

"__OPEN THE LETTER AND READ IT!"__

Sango took out the meat, throwing a slab to M'tiba before unfolding the letter. Many had got off as the cart had wound itself around coastal towns, avoiding much of the path that had been destroyed. It was, as the cart driver had put it, the 'scenic' route around to Umbar City.

Now only a handful of people were left, with Sango and M'tiba at the back.

Holding it up to the light of the moon, he could just make out the hastily scrawled lettering. It wasn't a long paragraph, nor was it a will or last testament. It said simply:

__Balar Jazrul, Red Cap.__

__The Orocarni is next.__

__-Tell him Jarmil sent you-__


	3. Chapter Three: Into Guthelabad

Beyond the Sea of Rhun, and beyond the vast plains that lay outside the imaginations of the men of the West, was Guthelabad. From the northern wastes where only the hardest of Clans survived to the borders of the ancient kingdom of Hildórien at the edge of Khand, the Orocarni (as it was called in elvish tongue) rose into spiralling nests of cloud that ripped at the steep mountain faces on every side. Red, immense, and as old as the Earth itself.

On each side, the kingdoms of the Easterlings thrived in the shadow of the mountain's roots. The principal settlements of the Eastern men who stayed to live off the trade coming from the mountain gradually grew through the ages, from encampments that their plains neighbours still preferred, into wooden fenced dwellings and then to vast stone cities. These straddled the many rivers springing away from the vast inland Sea of Rhun to the west, and each settlement there huddled close to the gates of a dwarven city, with some smaller towns meandering downwards as far as the mouth of the Nurad. Out in the middle of nowhere, this waterway split from its mother, the mighty Dânu, and after a few deserted miles it took a dive through a small gathering of grey hills at its foot and into the Azuladun Canal, signifying the passing from harsh rocks and scrubland into the soft sand and the way westwards to Umbari territory.

More than a hundred miles away from the Orocarni, on a river twice the size of the Anduin, sailboats and ships of all sizes fought for passage in the heaving central waterway that lead down to the Sea of Rhun. Barges of gold, salt, fruits and steeds passed each other with a blare of horn or clatter and cries, while in the chiefest port of Oszrahank, the freezing sea wind stung and whipped at any exposed skin offered to it, bending the fields of crops stretched out on all sides. Ship after ship passed through on their way to Dale and the North, harbouring in Dorwinion before stocking up and making the long journey to the west and back again, perhaps to the Greenwood, perhaps to the Iron Hills. Winding down through the houses, lodges and shops that nestled into the alcove of the bay, the dirt tracked street became paved nearer the harbour, where a bustling auction square stood in its midst, the first great goods auction that lay before reaching Dale. Despite the trade filtering through it daily, Oszrahank had never grown very much, remaining a small and close-knit community of local traders and merchants that catered to the ships passing in and out. Above the port and far up into the country, several small towns lay in the surrounding hills of mostly tomato farmers and wine pressers; from the highest point, on a clear day, the Orocarni could be seen, a giant red haze in the distance.

If you took a horse over the plainlands from Oszrahank, galloping as fast as the best stallion the Banyuk Clan possessed or flying straight as one of their hunting birds, it would be many days before you reached the nearest road, if you reached it at all. That might be the last you saw of the East before you were taken into the human city of Abulkhan, which lay in the crook between the gates of Nazbukhrin itself, the mighty Ironfist Halls, and the ancient forest of the East. The settlement, being the furthest East you got without passing over (or under) the mountain itself, arched its stony legs in a man-made plateau wide over the Dânu river, which began flowing from a gaping mouth in the cliff face, spray roiling up in a thunderous drone that never ceased, and churned by the incessant roll of ships out of the underground waterways of the dwarves.

Though Abulkhan's gates were heavy and thick, iron and timber reinforced, it was mainly a display of power and prosperity than any real defence. Shadowed by the mightiest of the dwarven houses and a deep river underneath, the Easterlings of Abulkhan had no real fear of attack by neighbours, and there were few orcs in this part of the world. The pirates, dwarf and Khandisgi, that roamed the Eastern coast, never dared to enter the mountain, and piracy for plunder was only constrained to the unfortunate cities that lay on the other side of Guthelabad, near the shoreline and the deserted stretch of islands at the edge of the eastern world.

Joined to a wall that reached barely up to the first towering rampart of the dwarven settlement above it, the gates of Abulkhan rested open until night fell, as for the past thousands of years the city had been a thoroughfare for wood and lumber – woods of all types and carpentry of all kinds – and the animal heads that crowned the Abulkhan's gate were statements of it: one, a white cedar-wood boar two men high, and the other a gigantic carven ram, looking out across the rest of Middle-Earth with stony eyes of jade and twisting horns of wood and black metal.

On a stone road above the city was one of the entrances to Guthelabad, and to Nazbukhrin. Open to the elements, the door lay rune-edged and proud, decorated with onyx and deepset silver, with a hardwood portcullis that raised and lowered more frequently than its stone covering was opened and closed. Wagons, merchants, and caravans of all kinds entered Nazbukhrin this way by foot and cart, winding upwards and upwards precariously, following the deep troughs worn into the road with the passing of years. Like a school of salmon fighting against the current and breaking free, the busy entrance of Nazbukhrin led into a vast concourse – not dark as might be expected from less educated men about a dwarven dwelling, but bathed in natural, bright sunlight from huge windows that faced onto the rest of Rhun, and the hundreds of gas-lamps suspended and burning ceaselessly.

The cluster of visitors and ambassadors thinned after the first checkpoint – a smaller hallway for formal greetings to the left after an intricate, pointed archway; a guard hall to the right – and each went their way inside the mountain paths, leading their oxen on leashes with surety that spoke of doing it ever since they were young. The relationship between the dwarves of Guthelabad and the men of the East and South was as old as their creation itself: who else taught the men their language, how to craft in stone and forge weapons of iron and steel?

The long central road weaved through the pillars, each one as thick as a mighty tree around, which disappeared far above into darkness. From the terraces and roofs on each level that rose high in rings into the mountain came the sounds of industry and business; dark jade and marble arches marked the way to smithies, workshops and streets, while carven stone hands pointed the way into the centre of Nazbukhrin and the tradehalls.

Every so often, the path would twist downwards, and the way would be shut off by a garrison of dwarves: the deepest smithies of the Ironfists were off-limits to those without appointment (which was scarcely given out with the leave of the Queen). It was said that these were the mithril-houses, where only the richest of jewellery and armour was created; but there were also whispers of an older metal that only the dwarves of Guthelabad still had access to since the elder days of elven trade: __galvorn__. The number of dwarves who believed this was debatable, but when questioned, the old smiths coming out of the area would keep silent, hoods thrown over their faces and talking in __fallakhuzdul__ amongst themselves.

The workshops were guarded fiercely, and rumours of dragons and prisons chased after any who had a mind to bypass the guards and take a look for themselves, though no man ever dared. The same rules were in effect for residential areas, which lay criss-crossed in between workshops and gathering halls. Smaller and cosier than the cavernous streets below, these were light and airy, protected by the more jovial of wardens with pointed caps balanced on their heads, often waving down to traders and merchants who passed or who needed directions. The edges of the streets were rigged with lanterns and lamps, wire meshed and glowing in many soft colours, and each home or dwelling hall was partitioned by a set of heavy blue curtains. Personal smithies and workshops stood with only a spell or two bound inside their door frames, where Ironfist and Stonefoot blacksmiths and jewellers worked all hours of the night, windows lit with candles and surrounded in silence.

In the centre of Nazbukhrin, as the central road became a steady flow of dwarves and carts, was the main tradehall, fronted by a metal billboard that stood towering next to the entrance. Above it was fixed the international sigil of trade in the Orocarni: a gold and deep blue hand, a coin of the realm set in the middle, with ancient greetings carved in all the tongues of men encircling it. Here, anybody could post notices of traders in town, goods that were sought and offered, or entertainment that was going on around the city that evening; if you slipped a coin or two to some of the dwarves in charge of the hall, who were designated by their rich purple robes, a notice that was placed surreptitiously at the bottom might move a notice up a few places, with a brightly coloured peg hammered into the top of it. On the hour heralded by the great clang of a bell, a crier would exit to much fanfare and call out any notices for the swarm of people at the door, haggled throughout to read adverts that were pushed towards them before vanishing angrily back through the doors and into the throng of shops and bodies.

The main hall was for meeting and exchange; here were the bankers and scribes, who weighed gold and traded in it. This acted as the largest tradehall for the citizens of the Orocarni – dwarf -made goods for dwarven hands, with local dishes and crafts spanning the whole of the mountain. Stonefoot powder dyes that lined up piled high in brass plates stood next to a cramped wall full of Blacklock medicines and books bound in leather hides, which were kept away from outsider eyes inside a large, heavily guarded tent. More mundane wares such as pots and pans were wheeled down from the smithies above to sit alongside cases of wine and rum that were rolled out of cellars by the barrel in yak-drawn carts. Amongst them, some human tradesman walked, wares slung about their shoulders, or before them on trestle tables as they sat and bartered back and forth – it was the place for goods that didn't fit anywhere else, but also to hear gossip and tales, to share a drink with friends (and sample some of the ones from distant lands). Through the hall at intervals, rows of tents pitched up where not only sellers sat and kept shop, but also writers, astronomers, magicians and physicists conversed deeply, trading ideas over complicated stone-games, with pots of tea kept warm nearby on small fires.

There were a handful of other rooms branching off of the main hall, which dwarfed even the throne room of the Queen (which wasn't so much a throne room as a private audience chamber, settled in the highest part of the mountain's peak). The white walls of the Smith's Hall were kept immaculate, standing sharply out from the red of the floor, with trader's wagons set up aligning the pillars. Some of the dwarven smiths had set up shop inside the hall itself, basic equipment for fixing repairs, and small bellows and forges half the size of their counterparts were built into the sides of the room at the far ends: these permanent shops were reserved for the most established of dwarves, family companies who had traded in the Orocarni's halls since they were created. At benches and in cloth tents, Stonefoot jewellers carved in turquoise, Tiger's Eye and lapis lazuli, setting gems and adorning men and women alike in requested styles; others peered in to catch sight of what the latest fashions spreading across the Orocarni were. At the far end of the hall, across the circle of space used for auctioning and stall trade, were the set of stairs that led down almost a mile away to the armoury proper. Easterling, Haradi and dwarven armour and weaponry churned out constantly, with the hydraulic steel pistons of the armoury forges operated by a diverted flow from the river and overseen by hundreds of workers at a time. Here was undoubtedly the loudest part of the mountain, and the great throb of machines hammered out a pounding rhythm – the heartbeat of the mountain.

Built high over the rushing water below, the central road continued in its way through the mountain, passing by and through each tradehall and forking off like branches of a tree before coming back together again. The Spice Hall held an intoxicating fug of aroma and colours; hidden around a quiet corner away from the road was The Library, barricaded by a set of giant gold doors where only dwarves passed; The Treasury was the province of those who traded in raw gemstone, and cartloads arrived from armoured ships in the port.

Below the road, barges and boats passed underneath towering arches that glistened with moss and spray, and every so often, the stone road would change to a heavy wooden drawbridge. The flow of traders and pack-animals would halt momentarily as guards cranked leavers to hoist up the road, a mighty greatship passing underneath and downwards to the port of Nazbukhrin. The further down you went, the closer to the underground river you were, and if you followed it along the banks past the dwarven shops and houses in the less wealthy (but none the less busy) parts of Nazbukhrin, you would come to the vast harbour, which was illuminated not by lamps but by the light that streamed in from the gaping exit onto the world and the river heading down to the Eastern Sea.

The river that ran through Guthelabad was the largest underground water system in the Middle-Earth. Carved by the early dwarves before even the meeting of men, it began from the iced peaks of the Stiffbeard fortress in Kikuama, rushing down in an endless torrent through each territory and homeland. Underneath the roads of Guthelabad, it passed through the mountain wide enough for four ships abreast to sail and straight on until the other side. Port Nazbukhrin itself provided a more welcoming experience for sailors looking for the taste of familiar harbour life: shops and houses of brick crammed the sides of the port in a labyrinthine pattern that concentrated the rest of the dwarven populace into an area which had built up gradually over time – pushed together and overflowing with open-air blacksmithies, and dens of cheap food and cheaper drink. Buildings had been almost stacked up on top of one another, some toppling, some used as scrap for other nearby complexes, and the whole township stood apart from the residential streets above, the province of those dwarves who joined Corsair ships far from home, or who operated as smugglers within their own cities. The taverns this far under the mountain held many songs and news that didn't make it to the ears of those in other parts of Nazbukhrin.


End file.
